you resembled her, it brought to her mind all the perceived inadequacies she felt compared to her. She’s a good woman in her own way.” His voice trailed off just before Predmore knocked on the door.
Elizabeth was silent, contemplating her father’s words as Predmore served them.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?”
“No, thank you, that will be all,” she returned softly, her eyes never leaving her father’s face.
Lord Monweithe took a sip of the sherry the butler handed him then set the glass down on a small table and rested his elbows on his knees, letting his folded hands dangle between his legs. “Look at me, child. I weren’t ever much of a catch, but your mother loved me, little though I deserved it, and I worshiped the ground she walked on. Can you find it in your heart to forgive an old codger like me just a little? I know it’s years too late, years that can’t ever be mended, but I’d like to try to be the parent you never had, and maybe, well, maybe be a doting grandfather,” he suggested tentatively.
Elizabeth blushed to the roots of her hair at his last comment. She would like to give him the opportunity to be that loving grandfather, if she and St. Ryne could ever stop circling each other. She possessed high hopes for the future of her marriage; it was only right she should set her past to rest if she wanted to have a chance for future happiness. She thought that was perhaps what St. Ryne was trying to do by arranging this meeting with her father and clumsily giving his excuses for leaving them alone.
Suddenly her eyes were watering though a broad smile shone on her face. She rose from the couch and crossed to her father, sliding down to the floor to sit by him. The old Earl looked questioningly at her. She grabbed one of his hands and raised it to her face.
“I’d like that, Papa. I’d like that so very, very much.”
“Papa,” he repeated wonderingly. “You haven’t called me that since you were such a little tyke.”
She looked up at him. “Hold me, Papa, please?”
He gathered her up in his arms. “Oh, Elizabeth,” he choked and soon there were tears on both of their cheeks.
Elizabeth’s eyes misted again at the memory of that interview. Suddenly she was filled with anticipation for the ball. She wanted to make her father proud of her and show the beau monde the Earl of Rasthough had an oldest daughter of whom he could be proud.
When her father finally left, she’d sought out Justin, her heart full of love. He knew, without her saying anything, what had occurred. He wanted to draw her into his arms and claim her for his wife in truth, but he held back. He felt she needed time to come to terms with her thoughts and feelings and he wanted her to turn to him for himself, not just because she was feeling happy with life for a change. He had decided, that day they were in Mme. Vaussard’s little shop, that the night of the ball, which he hoped to be a turning point in her life, he would claim his Bess as his own.
At last, though long, our jarring notes agree; And time it is, when raging war is done,
To smile at scrapes and perils overblown.
—Act V, Scene 1
The dinner party before the betrothal ball was purported to be of a select nature, yet by gazing upon the invited people filling the drawing room of Rasthough House awaiting the call to dinner, it bore a striking resemblance in size to one of Prinney’s famous Carlton House banquets. In truth, an invitation to the dinner had become a social necessity to any with pretensions of position and was regarded dearer than an admittance card to Almack’s.
Gentlemen, pressed by their wives and their pockets because of the side bets placed in the clubs on Lady Elizabeth’s comeuppance, jovially importuned the Earl of Rasthough for invitations. Widows flirted shamelessly with him to the same effect or turned to Lady Romella Wisgart, so sweet in their congratulations. Still others sought invitations from the betrothed couple with warm compliments and subtle, or not so subtle, hints that an invite would be welcomed.
Lady Helene Monweithe and her swain, the Honorable Frederick Shiperton, naively took it as their due. They were sadly mistaken, for society’s interest was grounded solely in their knowledge that the Shrew of London would be